stiff-upper-lip attitude.
“It isn’t a cure-all, but yes,” Franca said. “For example, adoptive parents worry whether there’ll be a temperamental mismatch and whether the child will bond with them as strongly as with a birth parent.”
“Or whether they’ll bond with the child?” Marshall asked.
“That, too.”
“You raise interesting points,” he said. “To me, therapy has always seemed unscientific, perhaps even...” He paused as a couple moved past them to claim an empty table.
“A weakness?”
“Yes.” He regarded her steadily. “I realize patients find it helpful. I’ve just never understood why.”
“I wish doctors underwent therapy the way psychologists do,” Franca said. “It’s part of our training.”
“Was it helpful to you?”
“Very.”
“In what way?”
“I learned to stop assuming I’m responsible for my mother’s happiness.” She tilted her head as she reflected. “Ten years ago, after my father died, my brother went his own way. My sister was already married and living out of state. So Mom focused her energies on me, insisting we talk for an hour every night. Sometimes she’d phone at lunch, too. It was intrusive, but I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. She’d always been more invested emotionally in her children than in my dad, despite their good relationship.”
“Why was that?” It had never occurred to him that children could be more important to a parent than the husband-wife bond.
“My mother had been married once before and had several miscarriages.” Franca hesitated, as if reluctant to confide too much. Odd, considering how readily she invited his confidences. Then she continued, “Her first husband couldn’t handle the disappointment and left. Mom never entirely recovered from that betrayal. So as you can see, I know about the fallout from fertility problems in my own family.”
“Surely things changed after she married your father, right?” He’d liked the elder Dr. Brightman when they’d met once at a campus event, although the man hadn’t spoken much. He’d puffed on an aromatic pipe and listened attentively to the conversation involving his wife, Franca and Belle.
“Yes,” Franca said. “Fortunately, there were no more miscarriages. But in a sense, I think she felt his loyalty had never truly been tested.”
An interesting insight—but not really relevant to today’s topic. “How did counseling help with your mom?”
“I had a frank talk with her about respecting boundaries,” Franca said. “I also suggested activities for her.”
“How’d she take it?”
“It upset her, and that upset me.” She sighed. “After a few rough weeks, she reluctantly joined a senior center. A couple of months later, she met a widower, and married him.”
“Is she happy?”
“Extremely.” Franca folded her hands on the table. “They moved to Reno, where his children live. She’s surrounded by grandkids, and except for the holidays, I’ve become barely more than a Facebook friend. A victim of my own success.”
That wasn’t the worst thing in the world. “If I were on Facebook, my mother would unfriend me,” Marshall muttered.
“Because of you and Nick being brothers? I don’t really understand how that happened.” Franca broke off as a server offered them each a chocolate chip cookie, courtesy of the café. “Thanks.” She set one on her napkin. Marshall accepted his and enjoyed the chocolate melting in his mouth while weighing how much to reveal.
He might as well spill it. The details would soon be all over the hospital anyway. “Nick’s parents allowed my parents to adopt me as a toddler. Upton Davis was much more successful financially, while my birth parents were nearly homeless. I gather they hadn’t planned on having two kids a year apart.”
Quentin Davis had stumbled from job to job, drinking heavily and refusing treatment for his bipolar disorder. Aunt Adina had held a series of low-paying positions, spending money whenever she had it and expecting it to fall out of the sky when she didn’t.
“How unusual that they chose to adopt the toddler rather than the baby,” Franca said.
“I presume Nick was still breastfeeding. Also, with a toddler, they had a better idea of how well the child was developing.”
“Aren’t you being a bit severe?” she asked.
“I know my parents.” Rather than elaborate, Marshall moved on. “My folks paid Adina and Quentin for an apartment and other living expenses, and insisted on secrecy in return. Until last week, I had no idea I was adopted.”
Franca rested her chin on her palm. “How’d you discover it?”
“Uncle Quentin had a crisis of conscience and decided to get it off his chest. He corralled Nick and me and dumped it on us.” Marshall pictured the graying, slightly stooped man as he’d sat at a conference table in the medical building just last Monday.
“Your mom must have been upset.”
“She implied I’m not her son anymore and refuses to have dinner with me or even talk to me.” When Marshall inhaled, his lungs hurt.
“It might be a knee-jerk reaction,” Franca said. “I can’t believe she means it.”
“She didn’t leave much room for doubt.”
“What about your birth mother? Do you have a relationship with her?”
“Aunt Adina died a couple of years ago. I never especially connected with her,” Marshall said. “But at thirty-five, I don’t suppose I need a mother.”
“Everyone needs a mother.” Reaching across the table, Franca cupped her hand over his fist. Instinctively, he relaxed beneath her touch. “Give your mom time. She’s hurting, and she lashed out at the person most closely associated with her secret—you.”
“If she refuses to see me, what am I supposed to do?” he asked bitterly.
“Write her a letter,” Franca advised. “Tell her you love her and that you’re here for her. She’s a mother, and once her initial shock eases, she’ll view things differently. Don’t let pride keep you apart.”
Pride. Marshall had plenty of that. “I suppose that’s good advice.”
Her smile froze on her face. Following her gaze, he spotted a little girl with black hair clinging to a woman’s hand as they entered.
Anguish transformed Franca’s expression, stabbing into Marshall as if the pain were his own. He’d never experienced another person’s emotions this keenly.
He didn’t have to ask what had hurt her. This must be her foster daughter.
* * *
EVERYTHING AROUND FRANCA VANISHED. All the light in the world haloed the little girl she loved.
Hard-won self-control barely held her in place. Then Jazz spotted her and the girl pelted across the restaurant screaming, “Mommy Franca!”
In an instant, the child was climbing onto her lap, hugging her. And Franca hugged back, tears flowing.
Bridget stalked toward them. Despite her jeans and cartoon-printed T-shirt, she looked older than her twenty-three years, thanks to her drug use. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m sorry.” Franca struggled to catch her breath.
“Jazz, get down right now!” Bridget’s command whiplashed through the air.
“No!” The child burrowed into Franca.
Marshall